


Whither Thou Goest, I Will Go

by noun



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Cultural Differences, F/M, POV Second Person, how do you solve a problem like maria
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 14:41:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29280111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noun/pseuds/noun
Summary: You saw her, marked her gait and build, and you thought, first,crusader, and thenTemplar, because Altair had only ever talked of two women with anything like interest in his voice.One was long dead and less mentioned, and the other was the particular creature he’d somehow confused for de Sable, which piqued even your interest. It was entirely probable Altair had managed to make the acquaintance of a third, brand-new woman, but extremely unlikely.That the desires of the flesh had finally taken hold in a long delayed boyhood eagerness was not wholly unexpected. At the appropriate age they manifested as discreetly touching himself at night in the novice dormitory instead of sneaking out to train.When unleashed in adulthood, it apparently resulted in bringing a foreign woman back toMasyaf, of all places. Into the sanctuary of the Brotherhood.Luckily, Altair’s madness flowed in the same direction it always had, and the woman- wife- was merely (merely) your first guess, the woman Templar, once de Sable’s closest confident.
Relationships: Malik Al-Sayf/Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad/Maria Thorpe
Comments: 8
Kudos: 8
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 6





	Whither Thou Goest, I Will Go

**Author's Note:**

  * For [deathwailart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathwailart/gifts).



You saw her, marked her gait and build, and you thought, first, _crusader_ , and then _Templar_ , because Altair had only ever talked of two women with anything like interest in his voice.

One was long dead and less mentioned, and the other was the particular creature he’d somehow confused for de Sable, which piqued even your interest. It was entirely probable Altair had managed to make the acquaintance of a third, brand-new woman, but extremely unlikely. 

That the desires of the flesh had finally taken hold in a long delayed boyhood eagerness was not wholly unexpected. At the appropriate age they manifested as discreetly touching himself at night in the novice dormitory instead of sneaking out to train. 

When unleashed in adulthood, it apparently resulted in bringing a foreign woman back to _Masyaf_ , of all places. Into the sanctuary of the Brotherhood.

Luckily, Altair’s madness flowed in the same direction it always had, and the woman- wife- was merely ( _merely_ ) your first guess, the woman Templar, once de Sable’s closest confident. 

Altair was always reliable in his absurdity. He never did do anything by half measure. He never made a mistake except for when he did, and when he did, he broke the Creed and killed your brother.

When the situation had fully revealed itself to you, when she’d introduced herself to you in her clumsy Arabic and you’d replied in your more fluent French, you had wondered why Altair would be so cruel to her as to bring her here.

He was always cruelest when he meant well and was ignorant.

She was nominally a Christian in the same way most members of the Brotherhood nominally kept religion; but that was not foreign. 

But Altair’s mother had been much the same, in terms of origin and religion. She had never stopped being foreign. Even after her death, her memory could not be divorced from that singular fact.

Your own father had commented on it, before he’d died valiantly on a mission.

(A great number of Assassins of his generation died on missions, until all that was left were men too old or too young to dispute what Al-Mualim said, or the direction he took the Brotherhood in. The Brotherhood was always closely-knit, then it became _insular_.)

So what would become of Maria, who was not only foreign, as Maud had been, but formerly a Templar besides? Had Altair even considered that before he wed her, or had he forgotten it in his arrogance? Did he think the village women would accept her with grace? Was she to only associate with the other Assassins? Being the Mentor’s wife would make that an impossibility. 

The thoughts nagged at you like a toothache, stayed with you through your work and weeks, shortened your temper. You would address the oversight, if he would not. You cleaned up so many of Altair’s messes. 

You knew she sparred in the ring with whoever would have her. Initial attempts to vent frustrations on her left with the Brothers that tried in the dirt while Altair watched on proudly. Now, Altair let her alone, and Maria’s matches were more educational, some real experience for the novices against the larger swords and tactics of the Crusaders.

You planned it so it would seem incidental, passing her in the hallway when she returned, dusty and worn, hair frizzy in the braid.

“You must be thirsty,” you said, and she acquiesced with a nod. 

“Will you take tea with me,” you asked.

“You’ve certainly taken your time,” she said, hand on her hip, looking you over like she looked over the novices. 

“Yes, I will,” she said, and you kept your reaction at bay. She did not know you well enough to measure the tightness of your jaw as Altair did. 

You led her back to your office off the main library, the little alcove that managed to stay cool in the summer and warm in the winter. As you set about preparing the tea and pouring it into cups, the motions practiced and one-handed, she began to look over the shelves. Most of it was overflow from the stacks, but some of the objects were personal, if not enough to justify keeping in your personal quarters.

You watch her hands move.

“Why did you come here?” you asked. 

“To the Holy Land, or to Masyaf?” she asked.

“The Levant,” you said. 

“England had nothing to offer me.”

“And to Masyaf?”

“I thought I would follow my husband, and see if I was not better at being a wife the second time.”

“You were married,” you said, and she nodded, still looking through your books, wiping her fingers on the cleanest part of her tunic before she touches the spines. 

“Didn’t I just say so?”

“How did he die?” you asked. 

“He lives,” she said, “As far as I know, but I was barren, so he set me aside. I did not want to go into a cloister, nor live in the house of my father or brother, so I came here.” She glanced back at you. “Altair knows.”

“About marriage?”

“That I will not give him children.”

“He would not know what to do with a baby,” you said. You had had to learn because of your brother, but Altair had none of the intuition or the yield in him. 

“Then we are well matched,” she said. She did not take a book down from the shelf, but instead went for a scroll. You said nothing, so she unrolling it on top of the table. It was one of the maps you had done of Jerusalem, more an exercise than something either of use to the Brotherhood or something that could be sold in your shop. Sentimentality had baid you keep it; it was the first piece you created after the Temple where you had not smeared the ink.

“How did you meet de Sable?” you asked, continuing with the general theme of interrogation.

“I could not hide my sex forever,” she said. Her finger traced an alleyway. “He was impressed when he saw me fight assailants off with no training. His protection turned into playing squire; I was determined to turn myself from his amusing oddity to an asset. The journey gave me many opportunities.” 

“And then?” you prompted.

She shrugged her shoulders. She was _looking_ for something on the map, you saw her eyes following some familiar route.

“Nothing. I served. I was not openly abused. Robert’s respect was enough; I sought no greater station.”

“That was enough?”

She turned away from you. “Altair told me you ran the Jerusalem safehouse for the Brotherhood. I assume it was in this building,” she said, and pointed to a spot on the map. “Else why include these alleys?”

You looked over to see where she was pointing.

“One building over,” you said. 

“Nearly,” she said, and her smile was wry. 

“It was a mistake to bring you here,” you said. Her whole manner changed in an instant, shifted into defence, like you had drawn a blade. Well, you had.

“So, you are the one who has been leading the chorus of whispers about the unsuitability of my presence. I will give you credit, Altair did not even suspect you.” 

“No,” you said forcefully, gesturing sharply, your frustration choreographed. “He thought only of himself. Did he mention even once the likelihood you would be shunned?”

She barked a laugh, evidence enough of her continuing displeasure. “You do not think it occurred to me? When I experienced it at Robert’s side?”

“And you came anyway?”

Maria turned to look at the window. “Do not suppose I did so because it was the only option I had left.”

You went to roll up the map she had been looking at, the task practiced enough that you could manage it with ease. 

“I will make a life for myself here, Malik. With how he speaks of you, I had hoped you would be more accepting.”

“He acts with unbearable arrogance.” The map returned, you took your cup again, staring into the depths. “I am pleased he did not entrap you.”

“I will die with a sword in my hand were anyone to try,” she said cheerily. “He is a vicious killer, and the bain of so many of my former comrades, but he could not entrap a mouse. I came willingly.”

“So be it,” you said, and considered your duty to her done.

Later, after you had spoken with her about less consequential things, like the novices and the price of salt and what she had seen in Cyprus, she as willing as you to let the topic lie, you sat with all her words. You struck out in anger often enough, able to be provoked in ways Altair could not, but the influence waned year by year until you recognized some utility in waiting. If Maria still felt as she did now in a year, in two, you would eat your words. Until then, the wary anticipation would keep. 

As for Altair, well.

“Is she not magnificent,” the Mentor of the Levant Brotherhood says, ignoring the map on his desk for the view out his window, conveniently of the ring. You agree with him, privately, and consider what it would be like to spar with her. Or, rather, what it _would_ have been like. 

“Do you intend to let a woman distract you from your duties,” you say. “If you did not intend to be a better Mentor than your predecessor, you should not have taken up the mantle.” 

To Altair’s credit, he does look away. He does not look so chastened much as solemn. 

“There was no one else,” he says, and again, you agree privately. No one had ever been allowed to become anything close.

“I have you,” he says, “and I have Maria. Between the three of us, we will find a way.”

“And you will never acknowledge our contributions, lest they give away the game. Lest you seem anything less than the untouchable protege,” you say, mocking, and then with horror, realize it will be so. Altair smiles as the annoyance settles on you.

“You are never so happy and motivated as when you are unappreciated, Malik. Your furor motivates you,” he says, and takes one of the almonds standing in for a Crusader force on the map before him, popping it into his mouth.

You slam down a replacement. Altair lays his hand over your own and leans in.

“Do you remember when we were given our swords?”

“You sliced your arm open within the hour,” you said. Altair grinned, all teeth and little mirth. 

“You were so delighted by my failure that you caught me alone to remind me of it later that day. Do you remember? When you--”

“Altair,” you say, and you mean it as a warning. He reaches out, and grabs your wrist, and you do remember that afternoon, in some discrete corner of the fortifications, Altair’s arm in a sling. 

You do not remember the last time he kissed you. Sometime before Solomon’s Temple. It had not been memorable; you had grown more frustrated with him as Al Mualim had singled him out for special attention more and more often, and so your trysts became less and less frequent. Some degree of competitiveness in him and in sex was pleasing and even exciting; arrogance was not. 

Now, he barely has his lips against yours before you push him away. The two of you are too trained- he, exquisitely honed- to need more than that to break apart. 

“What are you _doing_ ,” you hiss, hand raised, half rage and half disappointment. You thought you were done being disappointed in him. “You have a wife. Think of all you have made her give up. And do you think I have any desire in continuing boyhood fumblings?”

The look of hurt before his face smooths over into placidity hurts even as it infuriates you. How dare he. _How dare he_.

You ignore the map. You ignore what you came here to tell him. 

“Mentor,” you say, and by happenstance of habit, make the short bow that Al Mualim had mandated before leaving his presence. You do not look back.

You go back to your room. You go about your day. You go to sleep, you wake up, you teach novices, and hate that you are involved in this insipid tangle. 

You find Maria in the Mentor’s rooms, sitting on a bench by the window, with Altair blessedly absent, and you tell her. In her position, you would want to know.

“Did he?” Maria asks. She has linen cut into shapes before her; she is sewing them together, the garment starting to take shape. It is very small. “I told him he should use his words. He seemed very confident in his approach.”

“You approved?” you said. ‘You knew’ is obvious. 

She sets her needle down, and the shape of the garment reveals itself to be a very small smock. “He talks about all of three things with enthusiasm. The Brotherhood, his desire to improve himself, and you. I anticipated some sort of… mutual fascination.”

“Four things,” you said. “He watches you in the ring from his office. To distraction.”

“Four things, then,” she amends evenly. “I do not think him capable of infidelity, because I know I am not his first love, or his second. I think that was the Creed, then himself, though he has grown out of his pride. I think that despite your beliefs to the contrary, he understands at least somewhat what it would mean to strand me here if he did not wholly respect and reinforce the bonds of our marriage. I wanted a husband who would respect me, who would value my words, my thoughts, my opinions. Who would give me my freedom. And in him, I have that.”

“I will not _take_ him from you,” you say, disgusted. “I do not _want_ him.”

You do not want to _take_ him from her, like you are two washerwomen screaming over an unfaithful man in the village below.

“He is impossible,” she says, a little mirth creeping in. But the somberness returns. “So return to what you had with him, or not. He will respect either, and I will not mind. We both matter to him in ways no one else does, or will. We have seen him weak and beaten. I think what would make him truly happy,” and she cuts herself off suddenly. She frowns.

“Do not censor yourself,” you say dryly. 

“What would make him happy is if we cared for one another as he cares for us.”

“I do not care about what makes Altair happy,” you point out, and her look is _withering_. 

“You do,” she says. “At least a little.”

“Perhaps,” you say, and sigh. 

“It would make _me_ happy,” she says, a bit more forcefully, “if I knew I could trust you, Malik.”

You frown. “We have spoken of this. I did not begin those rumors.”

She moves as if to pick her sewing back up. You think about Altair watching her as she fought. You think about watching her fight yourself, the admiration, the longing. You know that it went beyond wishing you could still move like that, wield a blade like that. She followed Robert de Sable. She earned the admiration of Robert de Sable. She left her home and came here, and she did not flinch.

Lost in thought, you realize she is looking at you. 

“Malik,” she said cautiously. You stood, and sat beside her. She lifts her hand, and it hovers in the air above your own before she grabs it. Her fingers are stiff.

“To his credit,” she starts. “He has told me everything. Every question I asked, he has answered, without hesitation, and, as far as I can tell, without deception. But I did not need to ask about Solomon’s Temple; he began with that when he explained how Rashid ad-Din Sinan had come to folly. He spoke of you beyond that, and I was looking forward to meeting you from his stories alone.”

“Maria,” you say, and you wonder if all of that will be enough in the coming months and years of her time here. If Masyaf can be a home to her as she so clearly intends it to be. 

“Malik,” she replies, and stares at you. 

“He means,” she says, “a great deal to me, as he does to you. Even when he is stupid, and stubborn, and too full of himself. I would like to come to know you as I know him.”

“I did not expect you,” you say, which is true twice over. You did not expect Altair to return to her on what was to have been a routine trip. You did not expect her to be as she is, all the things she is. 

She shifts in her seat, to better face you on the bench. You consider her face, her eyes, the sunburned patch on her nose, the scar on her cheek. You feel the callouses on her hands, similar to the softening ones on your own. You are aware, suddenly, of the closeness of her, of the smell of her hair and skin. 

You look up. Altair is hesitating by the doorway, eyes downcast.

“Were you intending to watch?” Maria asks, and her hand does not leave yours. Yanking it away would only make it seem like you felt guilty. You did not. 

“Yes,” he admits. “I hoped you two would settle things between yourselves.”

“Without you needing to account for tangling everything up in the first place?” Maria questions. Altair’s petulant silence is answer enough. 

“We have come to an understanding,” you announce, and Altair’s attention snaps to you.

“Have you?” he asks, and you nod. Maria raises a brow.

“And it is private,” you say, “for now.” Altair’s disappointment is palpable. He opens his mouth to speak; you like to think _everything is permitted_ is on his tongue. But the world is full of surprises and wonders, you see the realization he ought to say nothing come to him, and he closes his mouth. 

“I will need both of you, if I am to do this,” he says, all earnestness, all vulnerability. You know he does not show this to anyone else. That he cannot.

“We know,” Maria says, simply, and then she reaches for the tiny smock, and you understand.

“I have news for you,” she says. “I think you have earned it, given your repenting.”

**Author's Note:**

> Local man fails to consider he might have some of the same blind spots and/or turn-ons as other local man. Local woman would really just like to be taken seriously.
> 
> (Also everyone is like. Twenty-five at best and I refuse to believe they all grew out of their dramatic impulses that quickly, especially in private, and especially especially Altair, and they're all going through massive life changes, like surprise pregnancies and having to assume the leadership of literal assassins.)


End file.
